By Grace Ripperger 

My mother left me a card in which she had written, “Now is the time to be whoever you want to be.”

I hung it on my dorm wall before I went out that night. My new roommate let me use her perfume. 

“This is just like in the movies,” she said. 

During the walk to the party, I laughed more than I talked—not because I found everything funny, but because I didn’t know what to say. Up in the attic, there was a pool table being used for beer pong. There was a hole in the floor. Even when I looked into it, I still didn’t know who I “wanted to be.”

I leaned in close to one of the guys we were with, my shoulder against his, and asked, “Can I have some?” 

Come October, I was on my way. 

Forget studying medicine, I thought. I want to be a writer. 

But it’s true, what they say: to be a writer, one must actually write. One must have something to say. On Christmas Eve, I put on my special pine tree turtleneck, brushed my hair until it crackled with static. I could show them something different. I sat with my brothers and my cousins as we ate gingerbread cookies. At some point my uncle approached our table and started to greet everyone, but I was last in line. When he got to me, he widened his eyes, smiling, arms outstretched. 

“Gracie,” he said. “Did you get smaller?”

Grace Ripperger (she/her) ‘25 is double majoring in creative writing and psychology. She, not surprisingly, likes to read realism and psychological fiction in her free time. She also enjoys a good concept album and book-to-TV-show adaptation.